


A Vision of Roses

by Vevici



Series: On the Warden-Commander Vie Mahariel [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Brief Bethany Hawke, Developing Friendships, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 04:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15987350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: Leliana is hounded by dreams of roses. Suspecting it a vision from the Maker, she decides to learn what they mean. Could they be related to the three strangers and a dog who recently arrived in Lothering?





	A Vision of Roses

Soldiers poured from the Korcari Wilds in bouts. First a tight column of maroon and russet tunics, then separate groups of no more than a dozen. Then pairs, limping into the Chantry in need of treatment and food. Half the stock of gauze had been used to cover burns and stab wounds, and that was only when the king’s army stayed a night in Lothering to recuperate. By the fourth day of the retreat, the Chantry had to use soft-leather thongs or ropes as makeshift slings for the stragglers, who ranged from soldiers, mercenaries, camp followers, and even a few Chasind. All of whom shared the same news: the darkspawn won.

                The truth bit harder in Leliana’s heart. She saw the darkness in her dreams, but she had refused to believe it. For if the king and his army beside the noble Grey Wardens could not defeat the Blight, who was to save the women and children? The ill and the old? Yet the evidence lay in front of her, groaning and bleeding in rows of pallets that lined the nave of the chantry. Most of the injured would not survive the night, and all that Leliana could do was pray for the Maker to lend His hands to them. That is why He sent her the vision.

                For three nights since the slaughter in Ostagar, a single white rose bloomed amid ashen flowers and fallen leaves. And upon waking each morning after, Leliana hurried to the chantry garden, white nightgown stained as her knees fell on barren soil.

                This morning, Leliana bottled the urge to even peek at the courtyard. Perhaps her mind was exhausted from the inpour of refugees she could not help. Perhaps she was desperate for a solution, and her imagination was humoring her. After all, why would the Maker choose to talk to her? She who was a liar and a killer.

                “Sister?”

                Leliana jumped despite the sweetness of the voice. She took a deep breath and turned away from the altar. A young lady with dark hair and a red kerchief tied around her neck stood with her arms outstretched, offering a pile of blankets and linens.

                “For those who need them,” she said.

                “There’s quite a number,” Leliana said, hands hovering on her side. “You have three siblings, no? Do you have enough left for your family?”

                The young woman gave a rueful smile. “We’re leaving Lothering; we need to pack light, as my brothers and sister say.”

                “Ah. I see.” Leliana took the gift in her arms, soft in that well-worn manner. “Thank you…”

                “Bethany,” the young woman inclined her head. “Farewell, Sister.”

                Leliana sighed as she watched Bethany’s retreating figure. She was a common face in the chantry, but now, like a few others, she might never return. Would that the entire populace of Lothering were able to flee north.

                Blankets on her arms, Leliana marched to the tents pitched haphazardly south of the chantry. She didn’t remember when the tavern had run out of rooms, only that she went to fetch water from the well one morning and found farmhands and merchants being turned away from the door. Now, she most vividly remembered the sourness of a crowd pressed together in a limited space.

                On her way back to chantry after distributing supplies, a shout from a merchant cart stopped Leliana in her tracks and coaxed her closer to the commotion. One of the lay sisters pointed an accusing finger at a merchant, who in turn slapped the hand away. Their audience, two figures in dark hooded cloaks and a dark-haired woman, began to back away. But the sister caught the arm of the shorter cloaked figure.

                A wink of steel. Then a growl, a yelp. The sister found herself staring down her nose at a thin blade, and the merchant was pressed against his wagon by a snarling mabari.

                “Easy, now. We don’t want more attention.” This came from the tallest figure, who had strapped a shield onto his pack. A man, from the timbre of the voice.

                “Call off your mutt!” the merchant pleaded, palms raised.

                The knife left the sister’s skin, and Leliana heard the relieved sigh from both the sister and the tall man.

                The blade disappeared under the cloak—almost as if it was never drawn, and out came a soft voice. “Lower you price, and I will. The quicker you sell your wares, the sooner you leave the village.”

                The merchant’s face twisted as his eyes flicked to the hound, then at its master. They glanced at the other two figures and found no ally. “Fine. Fine, I’ll charge like I did before this mess.”

                A small hand on top of the hound’s head was all it took to make it plop on its haunches. Leliana marveled at that. Mabari are said to be highly intelligent animals and chose their masters carefully. And here was a great war hound, letting go of its quarry as soon as it was told to do so.

                “Thank you for your generous assistance,” the sister said, gaining the attention of the hound-master. Leliana could not see the face, but she noticed the widening of the sister’s eyes and the small step she took away from the person who just helped her.

                “I’ll ask you not to grab me like that again,” the figure said. “I could have hurt you.”

                The tall man hummed. “I’ll make a note of that too.”

                The sister blinked, then, struggling for words, blessed them instead.

                “’Tis unnecessary,” said the dark-haired woman wrapped in a burgundy bodice. “I’ve survived without your Maker’s guidance, and I shall continue to do so.”

                Finally, the three people and the hound turned toward the direction of the tavern. Leliana’s eyes fell first on the stave the dark-haired woman held, second on the glint of breastplate under the man’s cloak, third on the red markings on the hound-master’s face. None of them were injured. Or at least, Leliana could detect no signs of bodily pain aside from a scowl on the hound-master. But that could be due to being grabbed, or even because of the sorry state the village was in. Leliana watched them pause at the chantry board; were they mercenaries? The man was clearly a warrior, with his plate armor and shield; and the tall woman could be a mage, for she didn’t use the stave as walking stick. And the short one with the markings on the face?

                Leliana shook her head. What did it matter? They would flee from the village before the sun sank. Gathering her robe, she hurried past the trio and the dog and dove back into the chantry. Her thoughts of roses and strange people pushed under a pile of duties.

 

                A bang almost shook the ladle from Leliana’s hand as Fabian, the young wood carter, burst into the kitchen wide eyed and panting. Cook Mathilde wiped onions off her hands on her apron then pinched the boy’s ear.

                “Wha’ did I tell ya ‘bout bargin’ in like tha’?”

                The boy squirmed free, rubbing his reddening ear. “It’s tha’ roses, ma! They’re bloomin’. Well, on’a them is.”

                Leliana dropped the ladle and set another bowl of soup on the tray. Untying her apron, she knelt in front of Fabian. “Do you mean the rose bush in the back garden? They’ve been dead for years.”

                Fabian looked to his mother, then at Leliana. “I’m not lyin’, I swear.”

                “No need to for that, young man.” She gave the boy a pat on the head as she jogged past him and the cook, who shook her head.

                Could it be possible that a rose had grown after years of decay? She had checked daily for three days and found nothing, but on the day that she didn’t bother to do so, a child claimed to have seen a bud. Was the Maker testing her? What was He trying to tell her?

                Heat had risen to Leliana’s cheeks by the time she skidded to a halt at the garden wall. What remained of her breath left her lungs in a puff as her eyes picked out a small white spot among dark skeletal thorns. She approached slowly, as though her mere shadow could wilt the bud. Three paces, two, then she was kneeling in front of a flower no larger than her pinky. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell its sweetness. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw the petals open, as though to welcome spring. She decided then, to devote herself in fulfilling the Maker’s task for her. If only she understood what the vision meant.

 

When the door opened to the tavern the next day, Leliana almost spat water onto the refugee she shared a table with. She had thought little else other than the rose in her dreams and the new roses in the garden. Roses. By the Maker’s blessing, another bud sprouted sometime in the night and greeted Leliana in the morning. Between her reverie and shock, she had entirely forgotten about the strange group who arrived yesterday. That is, until they strolled into the buzzing Dane’s Refuge. Leliana was suddenly thankful for being seated at the tiny table on the second floor: the vantage gave her a clear view of all their movement.

                As it was yesterday, only the dark-haired woman did not wear a cloak. Heads turned as the dog lead the way to a table close to the bar, which put the group almost directly under Leliana. On one of the larger tables by the fire, five soldiers stopped their drinking to watch the group sit with the farmer Barlin. There was too much noise inside that Leliana could not track their conversation, though she understood the exchange: three flasks of green liquid from the trio for a clinking pouch from the farmer.

                The cloaked man reached for the pouch, the five soldiers stood, the dog’s ears perked. A grunt next to her pulled Leliana’s eyes toward her table mate.

                “I know those soldiers,” the man said around a thick dark beard. “Loghain’s men.”

                He spat the name as viciously as he tore bread between calloused, grimy fingers. The scrape of wood against wood drew Leliana’s eyes back to the floor below. Barlin had gone, and in his place one of the Teyrn’s men stood. None of the patrons touched their drink or food.

                “You know,” the leader of the soldiers said, palms flat on the table as he loomed over the hound-master, “we spent all morning asking about an elf in your exact appearance, and everyone said they hadn’t seen one.”

                An elf? Leliana sat straighter, almost leaning on the balustrade. Those closer to the door began filing though it, tiptoeing or bowing to avoid attention. They need not bother, for the soldiers found who they wanted. Leliana slipped a table knife up her sleeve then made her way to the stairs.

                “I’d been asking about Loghain’s men,” said the cloaked man as he got up from his chair and stood behind his cloaked companion. “But no one had seen them in Ostagar.”

                The dark-haired woman was about to open her mouth, but Leliana cut her off. “Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply poor souls seeking refuge.”

                Leliana smiled kindly, even as more patrons escaped the tavern. Even the barkeep was nowhere to be seen. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the supposed elf lean back on the chair, bracing a bare foot against the edge of the table.

                The soldier turned on Leliana with a growl. “They’re more than that. Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.”

                “The Wardens did not betray the king. Our order died with him.” The soft voice was punctuated by the mabari’s bark, which made two of the soldiers flinch.

                Leliana's eyes widened. They were Grey Wardens. 

                “Enough talk,” said the soldier, then turned to his men. “Take the Wardens into custody. Kill anyone else that gets in your way.”

                His lieutenant nodded. “Let’s—”

                The table slammed into the man’s crotch and he doubled over with a howl. The captain stumbled back, hand flying to his sword. A clink to the right warned Leliana to duck. As a sword whistled over her head, Leliana flipped the knife onto her palm, spun, and stabbed behind the man’s knee. He crashed to the floor, cursing at her. Standing, she kicked the soldier’s temple and knocked him out.

                Leliana turned in time to see a solider ran at her, only to freeze as violet sparks jumped across his body. He convulsed, eyes and mouth wide in a silent scream, then dropped to the floor. Bolts of lightning arched from his body to the dark-haired woman’s fingertips.

                In the middle of the room, the tall warrior leapt aside from a downward swing, hooked his arm through the soldier’s, spun behind him, and, with a hand on the soldier’s shoulder, rammed him into the wall. He clanked to the ground and didn’t move again.

                By the bar, the lieutenant lay on his side, whimpering. Paralyzed by the blow to his most sensitive parts and by the mabari snarling against his neck.

                “Anvil,” the warrior called.

                The mabari’s ears twitched, and it took its fangs off the soldier but kept snarling.

                “I don’t see Mahariel,” said the mage.

                A clang and shout rang from somewhere behind the bar. As Leliana, the warrior, and the mage ran toward it, a grey tuft of hair appeared amid a shelf of mugs and plates made of wood or pewter. He lifted a trembling hand and pointed behind him. A door. The warrior reached it first, pushed it open without hesitation or a drawn weapon. Boxes and fruits cluttered the floor. Flour, spices, a rolling pin, and whatever had been on table also joined the ground; and in their place, bent over the table, was the captain.

                “Maker’s breath,” the warrior said, joining the elf’s side. For his companion was, as the soldiers had accused, an elf. “Is he dead?”

                In answer, the elf pulled the captain’s hair to lift his head. A gash bled down his cheek, swelling eyes jumped from one face to the other.

                “I said we surrender,” he croaked.

                “Yes,” the mage drawled, leaning on the doorjamb. “Your men told us as much when they failed to rise from the floor.”

                “What?” the captain hissed.

                A frown creased the elf’s brow. “Dead?”

                “Unconscious,” said the warrior. The captain’s shoulders relaxed at that.

                “We can all stop fighting now,” said Leliana. Four pairs of eyes landed on her. At that moment, she felt as if she intruded on their conversation. Yet she didn’t leave or take back her words. There would be no more bloodshed if she could help it. “They’ve learned their lesson.”

                The elf’s eyes fell to the captain. She released her hold on him and stepped back. “Loghain ordered the bounty on the Wardens?”

                The captain, though leaning on the counter for support, nodded vigorously. “The Teyrn declared all Wardens traitor and must be brought to Denerim.”

                “What is he thinking? The Wardens are the only chance to defeat the Blight.” Crossing his arms, the warrior paced the small kitchen. “What else has Loghain done? What of the Banns and the Arls? They’ve heard what happened in Ostagar?”

                Again, the captain nodded, then jutted his chin at his belt. “They’ve heard. And all those nobles are going to war over it.”

                “A war,” Leliana repeated as the elf plucked a note from the captain’s belt. “Even as the darkspawn threaten everyone?”

                “Because the Teyrn doesn’t believe this is a Blight,” the warrior said, the muscles in his jaw writhing. “Or he believes he alone can stop it. He’s wrong on both counts.”

                A sigh from the mage. “’Tis irrelevant at the moment. Shall we focus instead on what to do with these so-called soldiers and be done with this village?”

                Leliana looked the elf in the eye, then did the same to the warrior. “There’s already enough violence in the kingdom as is.”

                The two shared a look, then the elf turned to the captain, who did his best to stand properly.

                “Take a message to Loghain. Tell him that the Wardens are not the enemy. Tell him that the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, Mahariel and Alistair, spared your life.”

                As the soldier bowed and limped out the door, an image flashed in Leliana’s mind: a vision of two white roses amid black thorns.

 

Leliana followed the Wardens out of Dane’s Refuge and into the noon sun. They walked in silence until they reached the bridge that connected the village center to its outskirts. A decision had to be made.

                “I apologize for interfering,” Leliana began, making the Wardens turn to her. “I couldn’t just sit by and not help.”

                The warrior, Alistair, shrugged. “We appreciate it.”

                Next to her, the mage scoffed. “Though it was not needed.”

                Mahariel, the elvhen Warden sighed. “Thank you. But where does a Sister learn to fight like that?”

                Leliana smiled. “Suffice to say, I was not always a lay sister in Lothering’s chantry. One is not born a Sister, no? I am Leliana. They said you are Grey Wardens. I’ve heard accounts of the battle at Ostagar from the soldiers who managed to survive—” Mahariel and Alsitair glanced at each other “—which is why I know you need all the help you can get. That’s why I’m coming along.”

                Silence. Another fleeting glance between Mahariel and Alistair. 

                “We do need help,” Alsitair said cautiously.

                “That and the Maker wants me to go with you.”

                Alistair and the mage laughed, the first thing they seemed to agree on. Though the former’s laugh was amused, unlike the latter’s derisive tone. Mahariel simply stared at her. No ridicule, no acceptance.

                “Can you elaborate?”

                At least she was willing to listen. Leliana told her of her vision, of the dead flowers that began blooming upon their arrival in Lothering. She had expected their reactions—Alistair’s knitted brow, Morrigan’s sneer, Mahariel’s blank look. After all, it was Leliana who first questioned her own sanity. But now more than ever, she believed her dreams. She trusted the Maker’s message.

                “By serving you,” Leliana said, “I serve His holy plan.” None of the three looked convinced, and the dog was content on laying on the ground. “I don’t need you to believe me, though that would be marvelous. I only ask that you allow me to travel with you.”

                Silence descended as dark violet eyes scanned her from head to toe. Mahariel’s face was still blank, and it reminded Leliana of the masks she saw every day in Orlais. The elf even had the delicate features of porcelain—slanted eyes, small nose, plump lips, soft jaws. A hard contrast against the sharp lines of the angry red markings on her face.

                Finally, a nod.

                “Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than mother thought,” said the mage to Mahariel, who merely shrugged.

                Leliana was too relieved and eager to mind the comment. She thanked Mahariel instead and promised not to let her down. For the first time in years, since leaving her life in Orlais and submitting herself to the Chantry, Leliana felt solid purpose under her feet. She may not be able to help the people of Lothering, or the people in the next village. But she can see to it that the Grey Wardens succeed in their mission to stop the Blight. And that will ultimately save more people than in any village, city or town. This was her place, with the two surviving Wardens. She understood what the Maker wanted from her, and she would gladly give it.

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing in Leliana's POV. As always, I'd love to know what you think!


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